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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29851296">Coming to Terms</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/mudkipwrites/pseuds/mudkipwrites'>mudkipwrites</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: Rebels</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Canonical Character Death, Childbirth, Crew as Family, During Canon, Early Delivery, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Five Stages of Grief, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Healing, Hopeful Ending, Morning Sickness, Pregnancy, Trauma, childbirth complications</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-03-05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-03-05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-15 23:34:20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Major Character Death</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>7,078</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29851296</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/mudkipwrites/pseuds/mudkipwrites</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Hera Syndulla has just lost her partner. Now pregnant with child and heavy with grief, she leans on her family and learns how to carry on.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Alexsandr Kallus/Garazeb "Zeb" Orrelios, Kanan Jarrus/Hera Syndulla</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>60</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Coming to Terms</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>I started working on this story last year for #RebelsRemembered, felt emotionally exhausted, stopped, started again, and now have re-worked it into something for this year's celebration. One important change: in this version, Ezra has been swiftly returned from the purrgil. (The perks of writing your own story!). I'm only willing to deal Hera so much trauma.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <hr/><p>
  <b>PROLOGUE</b>
</p>
<hr/><p>
  <em> You are finally together.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> As you rest entwined in your makeshift bed, your warm and softening limbs tangled together,  you know now that this journey of headache and loss is finally over. You are home: after all of this time waiting and wondering, after all of this time standing so far apart, you are finally, finally sure. Because: your hands are entwined together. Because: that long-awaited, much-yearned-for breath has finally been released, finally, breathed radiant and holy upon the skin that is yours. You felt the truth of it bloom through your heart, pour out with the sighs that were deeper than words. More certain than the returning of spring, more sure than the distant collapsing of stars.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> You belong to one another, now. You are sure.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Truly, you always have. Even before, when you were unwilling to speak such fragile and dangerous words into each other’s mouths. But now that it is no longer a secret--not from you, nor from him, or from anyone else that matters--now, you will fight for it. You will fight for this new, precious family and its well-being against any power in this galaxy, or any others that should ever threaten to harm you or tear you apart. Because now, you have found the place where your soul can rest. Now, you’ve finally taken the hand that has been reaching out towards you, and your fingertips are laced together, and you are walking away, together, through starlight. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> For, in your hands, you hold together a love that endures. A love that lives on.  </em>
</p>
<hr/><p>
  <b>MONTH ONE </b>
</p>
<hr/><p>General Hera Syndulla stands before the viewport of her cruiser, watching the starstreaks of hyperspace flow rapidly by. </p><p>Alternating lines of brilliant-white and deepest black rotate over the transparisteel, pulling and twirling as her <em> Ghost </em>leaps between the vast sectors of galactic space. At such a speed, no one is aware of the planets, star clusters, and lives that have been completely passed by. Moving at a hurried rate beyond visible light, there is no awareness of what else is suspended in the cosmic darkness, what has been abandoned as they pass by. There is only the ship: its flickering lights, its quieted engine-hum, and the empty, vacated chair in the shadow-dark cockpit. </p><p>The results of her pregnancy test had confirmed her suspicions: she was <em> pregnant </em>. </p><p><em> His </em> child, of course. </p><p>Hera leans one hand against the back of her captain’s chair, sinking into its familiar fabric with a relieved and appreciative groan. <em> Three and a half weeks, nearly four: </em> that’s what she’d come up with, when putting all of the pieces together. A craving for fruit and vegetables; an unfamiliar cramping in her calves, womb, and breast; the unsure, lukewarm feeling that something is <em> off, </em>whether in balance or hormones or with something else. Hera has been trying to be gentle with herself--she’s going through major grief, after all--but, like all things human being, this gestation is suddenly and powerfully moving things right along. </p><p><em> Nine months</em>.</p><p>She has nine months--where her body has always known eleven or twelve--to prepare for the arrival of this most unexpected child. </p><p>There was a time, not that long ago, when Hera Syndulla would have <em> cherished </em> the idea of carrying this human child. If there would have been a way for her to reach forward into the future and see herself without the surrounding details, a younger Hera would have been overcome with intense, speechless joy. But that was <em> before </em> she’d been abandoned. That was during a time in her life when she thought that she and Kanan would <em> always </em> be together, and that <em> nothing </em>would ever tear them apart. </p><p>How <em> young </em> she had been.  How <em>old</em> she is now. </p><p>The green Twi’lek woman sighs, massaging a hand over her temple. At this point, she does not have many symptoms: the slightest of headaches, the flicker of nausea. If her pregnancy is anything like that of many other womb-bearing humans, then she will likely be facing months of upcoming illness. She does not look forward to that--they have a <em> rebellion </em> to win, after all, and she is a <em> general </em>--but Hera Syndulla is now determined to fight her way through this. It is something that she can offer to Kanan’s memory, and it is something that she can still hold on to, of that promise that they’d crafted together with breath. </p><p>
  <em> It feels as though it is all she has left. </em>
</p>
<hr/><p>
  <b>MONTH TWO </b>
</p>
<hr/><p>Garazeb Orrelios is holding her hand when they feel the very first heartbeat. </p><p>“Congratulations, General Syndulla!” Captain Kallus says warmly. The ISB-turned-Fulcrum agent is gazing over at her with bright, liquid-gold eyes. He’s standing at the medbay of the <em> Ghost </em> and working his clever hands over the repaired keyboard and monitor, reading off the results of her scans and bio-readout. “A working engine! We have <em> lift-off.”  </em></p><p>Hera sighs, and Garazeb chuckles. His new boyfriend, it turns out, has quite the sense of humor.</p><p>“That’s a relief,” she replies, not feeling relieved at all. “Thank you, Captain Kallus.” </p><p>Hera feels Zeb’s warm, fuzzy hand squeeze firmly around hers. She looks up to see that the purple-furred Lasat has teared up in his luminous eyes, their green globes swirling with unreleased moisture. She raises worried brows at the former Honor Guardsman, but he shakes his head gruffly to dismiss her concerns. Instead, Garazeb reaches out and pulls Hera into an enveloping hug.</p><p>“Wish <em> he </em> coulda been here,” Zeb says roughly. “Wish <em> he </em> coulda been the one holdin’ yer hand.” </p><p>Hera stiffens with fear, then anger, then sadness. She slumps wearily into the warmth of Garazeb’s powerful chest and shoulders, feeling him patting clawed hands and soothing them along back, kneading and tugging like a mother cat with her kit. She hasn’t cried yet: she’s not sure if she <em> will, </em> or if she will have to wait for <em> years </em> before the grief thickens enough into tangible tears. For now, it is enough for her to recognize that one of her best friends is grieving; and that her little, broken family is feeling just as lost as she is. </p><p>“Me too, Zeb,” she murmurs, feeling the warmth of his gentle tears patter against her head. </p><p>“And me as well,” Kallus sighs from somewhere near them. Buried as she is in Zeb’s embrace, Hera doesn’t notice until she feels four pairs of large hands on her back--two Lasat, two human--that he has joined the embrace with them. “I wish that for you and your family as well.” </p><p>Hera swallows, eyes and throat feeling dry. </p><p>Inside of her womb, the cells are now living. In the fourth week, if they are to speak on human terms, the brain and the heart have begun to develop. The central and circulatory system have begun to unfold and weave out from the heart, and the embryo--now the size of a raspberry, or a smaller meiloorun seed--has begun to differentiate into vital organs.</p><p>Kallus had said: <em> ‘Very good! I can see the beginning of limbs.’ </em> And Ezra Bridger had said: <em> ‘Look! Little Buddy’s got webbed feet and fins!’  </em></p><p>But Hera Syndulla had remained quiet, lost deep in thought. Not about the healthy diet that Garazeb had suggested to reduce sickness, and not because of the way that Sabine had kindly offered to take over jobs so that she could rest, but because of how she was thinking that the embryo was, supposedly developing hundreds of thousands of living brain cells within them per minute. </p><p>And how Kanan Jarrus had nothing living within him at all.</p>
<hr/><p>
  <b>MONTH THREE </b>
</p>
<hr/><p>Sabine is painting the crib for the baby’s room when Hera decides that she has to throw up. </p><p>She scrambles away from the chair where she is sitting, and--hastily, without offering her adopted daughter any explanation--throws herself into the hallway refresher. </p><p>The Twi’lek woman sinks to her knees and groans as the wash of acid overtakes her throat, flushing her nose with a bright, sour smell and burning against her lips and teeth. She feels her whole body <em>heave--</em>and then, she vomits, greatly, retching and gushing away from her core. It’s a sick and terrible series of breathless moments as everything pours out from her insides, hot and liquid and tasking like bile. Her teeth are coated. Spots dance before her eyes as she reaches for distant breath.</p><p>When she is through, Hera lifts her head. </p><p>One of her lek trails over her back and shoulder, and the other rests beside her on the stool. She wipes away the cold sweat on her brow, and washes her face in the sink with trembling hands. </p><p>“You okay, Spectre Two?” Sabine Wren calls from outside. “Want me to come in there?”</p><p>She opens the door. The younger woman is standing there with her arms wrapped around her elbows, ruining the attempted calm of her voice and bravado of her offer. Hera feels a pang of heartache for the girl that Sabine had once been, and the ruthless speed with which the Mandalorian had been forced to grow into her role as a ruler, outlaw, and warrior. </p><p>She gestures for Sabine to come closer, and they hold each other, searching for reassurance. </p><p>“I wish I could do something to help you feel better,” Sabine says, drawing away. “What if I try and rub your hands? I heard that it reduces swelling…?”</p><p>Hera smiles at her. She places a hand on the side of Sabine’s close-cropped head, and uses her thumb to stroke at the human’s temple. “You being here as part of our family is already plenty,” she says, smiling gently. “I know that you have duties elsewhere, and I feel grateful for every moment that we can steal together.” She smiles wryly. “Even the gross, refresher-bound ones.”</p><p>Sabine laughs and places her hand over Hera’s. She stares back, and her brown eyes are sad.“I wish there was something I could do to help you feel <em> better </em>,” Sabine says quietly.</p><p>And Hera knows now that she’s not talking about the physical sickness--although, yes, that is a difficult challenge and gross challenge to manage--but that she is trying to tell her that she’s aware of the injury over her heart, and that she’s ready and willing to do all she can to try and hold this hurting family together, even <em> if </em> that is simply applying a coat of bright paint to the ancient crib that Ezra Bridger had salvaged. </p><p>With great tenderness, she leans forward and kisses the top of Sabine’s forehead. Neither one of them mentions that she smells like bile. </p><p>“Thank you. But I just don’t think that you <em> can </em> , love. I don’t think <em> anyone </em> can.”</p>
<hr/><p>
  <b> MONTH FOUR </b>
</p>
<hr/><p>Ezra is laughing and plowing through the brilliant, jewel-bright water before them. Above them, the hot and humid afternoon sun of Yavin 4 drenches the skin of their bare backs in sunlight. “Hurry, <em>faster!” </em>the young Jedi urges, warm and playful with his teasing words. “I know that you’re <em>huge </em>now, but pregnancy is no excuse for you to be <em>that </em>slow--<em>AACCHH!!” </em></p><p>The young man sputters and flails dramatically as she attacks him with splashing vengeance. </p><p>“<em>Ezra Ephraim Bridger!” </em> Hera chides in mock-anger. <em> “ </em> I <em> know </em>that you know better than to comment on the shape of anyone’s body in such a manner.”</p><p>But she isn’t truly upset. General Hera Syndulla is aware that her adopted son is just trying to bait her into another race. The little Loth-rat has been flush with victory during this season of her many physical changes, deeply enjoying the fact that he can beat her both on foot and in the water while she becomes re-acquainted with the voice and movements of her body. His words about her appearance are exaggerated, of course; inside of her womb, the child is no larger than an avocado, and the swell is only just beginning to show. </p><p><em> However. </em> For the child’s size, they <em> do </em>appear to be surprisingly active: kicking and sucking, flexing and turning, actively flinching to voices and flavors. </p><p>“Yes, <em> MOM,” </em> Ezra groans--and then, realizing the truth nested within his taunt, shifts from annoyance into nervous laughter. “I mean! <em> Technically </em> ! You actually <em> are </em> a mom now,” he stammers, vivid blue eyes anxious and wide. “Like, that’s your name, right? Or it <em> will </em> be. If you <em> wanna </em>.” Caught somewhere between a boy and a man, unsure whether he is allowed to laugh or to cry, Ezra Bridger chews on his lip and treads turquoise water. </p><p>Hera smiles softly, heart aching. Once again, she thanks the Force that he has been returned to them safely. It had been enough to lose one of her Jedi without so much as a spoken good-bye. To lose both of them, and in such a short term...it does not bear thinking about. </p><p>When she nods at him, reassuring and familiar, Ezra’s young face twitches into a relieved, crooked smile. “Sorry. I wasn’t trying to be a brat. Well, I <em> was, </em> but not like <em> that </em>--” </p><p>“Ezra,” she sighs. “Come here.” The young man treads water over to her, blue-black hair glittering with droplets in the hot summer light, shoulders tense from his nervousness. “Listen, love: you don’t have to treat me like glass. I’m not going to break.” She reaches up to squeeze his muscled shoulder <em> (when did he grow into such a strong young man?!) </em>And looks up into his eyes with affection. “I know that we all came from different families, and that you already have a mother. But there is a special place for you in my heart. I love you, just like I love Sabine and Zeb, and I think of you like my own son.” </p><p>His smile breaks and trembles--and, for a moment, she thinks that she sees something of Kanan Jarrus reflected there. </p><p>“Just like your Master.” </p><p>Ezra hovers at the edge of his grief. Like Zeb and Sabine, he has been able to release his sorrows: tears, shouting, even the lightsaber burns have all been part of his process. But he has kept much of it private from Hera. Like her, he’d formed a kind of eternal and trustworthy bond with the man that they’d lost; and, like her, he knows that acknowledging this just might make him shatter and break. </p><p>“Aww, what’re you trying to do now? Make me <em> blubber</em>?” </p><p>Quick as ever, Ezra recovers himself by drawing back his cloak of humor. “No dice, old woman! I’m not gonna go easy on you just because of those soft baby hormones. We’re gonna <em> race </em> now, and I’m gonna beat you f <em> air and square </em>!” He wheels his limbs around him like a mill, as though he might be able to pull himself upwards into the oxygen-rich atmosphere with just his arm strokes.</p><p>Hera rolls her eyes at his off-color humor. She reaches one arm above her head and stretches. “Oh, you’re in for it now, kid. Calling me <em> old </em> and being real <em> sexist </em> all in one go? I’m going to make you pay for that by eating <em> bubbles.” </em>She grins toothily at Ezra with her sharper than human teeth as the young man whoops and cheers in success.</p><p><em>Maybe, </em> she thinks, following after his rapid strokes through the water, <em> if the child turns out anything like his brother, then I will be able to bear it…</em></p>
<hr/><p>
  <b>MONTH FIVE </b>
</p>
<hr/><p>“I cannot <em> bear </em> this!” Hera snaps through clenched teeth. “I. Am. <em> HUNGRY! </em> I need to eat <em> something </em> with high protein, <em>NOW! </em>” </p><p>From where he is working dutifully at a sizzling pan upon the <em> Ghost’s </em> kitchen stove, Zeb turns and looks over his shoulder. He snorts, tall ears flicking with amusement as he watches his captain turn from an elegant general into a feral, unhinged <em> animal</em>. But when he catches the menacing expression that she is throwing him, the tall Lasat freezes stiff and turns back to the stove, whistling and stirring the mixture of rice, meat, and fruits with a forced air of innocence.</p><p>“Yer almost as bad as Kallus,” he says, flicking off the heating mechanics and removing the pan from the stove. “Hang in there, <em> Hangry Hera</em>, we’ll be eatin' in no time." </p><p>She is scowling through fists braced upon her chin by the time that the Lasat has seasoned and delivered the dish. He drops down into the seat across from her with a satisfied sigh, watching her tear into the rice-medley meal with a fearsome kind of intensity pouring from her. “Er. Sorry again that I ate yer nut-paste bars, Captain. I didn’t realize that you were plannin’ on havin’ it later this afternoon fer <em> second lunch,</em> or I’d have had somethin’ else.” </p><p>Hera glares at him through a mouthful of food. </p><p>“Second lunch is a thing that the <em>baby</em> made up,” she replies. “Just like second <em> breakfast</em>, or <em> midnight munchies</em>, or <em>Hangry Hera</em>. I <em> hate </em> it!” </p><p>Zeb’s ears fold back against his head as she chews with unrestrained ruthlessness. After several minutes’ time and the familiar weight of food begins to settle inside of her, Hera looks up and sees his apparent concern. She exhales through her nose and reaches for a towel to wipe off her face, realizing that she’s been eating with the kind of wildness that Ezra (and later, after his rescue, Kallus) had displayed after living for so long without critical nutrients. </p><p>“I’m sorry,” She offers. “I didn't mean to yell at you. Thanks for replacing my bars.” </p><p>“...But. <em>Do </em>ya hate it?” he asks. </p><p>Hera blinks at him slowly. She watches Spectre Four shift uncomfortably in his chair, then rub the back of his head in that manner he does when he’s feeling awkward.</p><p>“It’s just that…” Zeb winces, looking apologetic, then back to concerned. “...Well. I feel like I know ya better than anybody. Not better than Kanan, of course...” <em> (and neither one of them flinch, as they would have, in the earlier days) </em> “...but more than the kids. And more than the rest of the rebellion. We’ve been through a lot, you an’ me, since you found me back in that cell. And I can tell when somethin’ is up...and when somethin’s <em> down</em>.”</p><p>Through the familiar exhaustion of grief inside of her chest, she feels the warm tug of affection.</p><p>
  <em> Garazeb Orrelios. Where would we be without you?  </em>
</p><p>“Hera. Yer a wonderful person, and would make a great parent, but ya don’t <em> have </em> to do this.” Zeb gestures at her swollen stomach, and she feels something like grief prickle inside her. “I know that yer already bright enough to know this, but I just wanna say it in case you haven’t heard yet from anyone else that ya trust. Hera Syndulla: you’re <em> such </em> a good person. Worthy of life, and love, and <em> everything </em> that a good life has to give ya. And just because Kanan is gone doesn’t mean that you <em> have </em> to carry this baby. You’re alright. And you’re gonna <em> be </em> alright, even if you decide that ya don’t want to go through with this.” </p><p>It’s hard to say if the pain behind her breastbone is heartburn or grief. Either way, Hera swallows, massaging her chest. After a moment, and the pain lightens somewhat, she reaches out and places both hands on top of Zeb’s.</p><p>“Garazeb,” she says, squeezing his four-fingered hand. “You are my brother. I <em> love </em>you. Thank you for checking on me and my heart, and for making sure that I had a chance to hear what ought to be said.” She looks down at his strong palm, his deadly claws retracted into the pads. “I appreciate that more than you know.” When she looks back up at him, Hera’s throat constricts with emotion rather than hunger. “So may I be honest with you? For the first, long while, you were right. I <em> hated </em> them.”</p><p>She draws back one hand from the table, passes it over the swell where the growing child rests.</p><p>“I <em> didn’t </em> want this. I <em> resented </em> doing it all alone, and I <em> hated </em>the attention and praise.” She returns the hand to her breastbone, where the burning feeling has returned at acknowledging those memories and words. “I wasn’t ready to talk about it, then. I didn’t think that I was strong enough to use words to express what I was going through. If I spoke, I know that I would shatter, and that I could never go back. It wouldn’t be something that I could repair. It was such a raw wound, that I knew opening it up would be too much for me to endure." </p><p>The hand remaining within Zeb’s grip tightens. She looks back up at him, listening and watching carefully, his ears tilted forwards.  </p><p>“But I can talk about it <em>now</em>. I can say that I <em>hate</em> pregnancy: that I never wanted my body to change, and that I don’t like how it looks or it feels. I can say that I <em>hate</em> doing this alone: that I always dreamed of having a family, but <em> never </em> of being a single parent, caught in the middle of a war. I can even say that I <em>hate</em> the attention--the way that people dote on me, the way that they want to know about my eating and my fluids and my sleeping and <em> breast size</em> changes--<em>Stars,</em> as if they’re <em> owed </em> that kind of information about me!" </p><p>Zeb laughs gruffly, shaking his head. He strokes a padded thumb over her squeezing hand. </p><p>“But Zeb? Something has changed. I don’t...hate...<em>them. </em>The baby. Not anymore.”</p><p>And, upon hearing those words emerge from her mouth, she feels the truth of them forming and crystalizing inside of her. <em>Not anymore. </em>For the first time in so long, Hera Syndulla feels the prickling of heat and moisture behind her green eyes. Raising one hand to touch at the corner, she hears herself continue to speak truthful words: “It was the worst thing in the world, seeing that breath stolen out from the lungs of the person I loved most. Only to have it replaced so quickly by this...unwelcome <em>somebody. </em>Who I didn’t know. Who I didn't <em>ask </em> for. Who was taking up space, when I already had <em>so little to give." </em></p><p>She blinks rapidly. The prickling irritation behind her eyes is giving way into a burn. And then, just like the hot, scalding words pouring from her, she is <em>weeping. A</em>ll of the pent-up rage, grief and sadness seeping from her like a broken, cracked glass.</p><p>“I wanted to punish the baby for his death,” she continues, breathless, as though if she stops she will not have the strength to start again. “I wanted to hold on to something, <em>someone, </em>that could be accountable for what had been taken from me. It’s not like my life was going to suddenly get <em>better</em>, just because I had this needy, <em>terrifying</em> little creature inside of me! All I wanted was for us to be together:<em> t</em>o be taken care of, to care for, my best friend and partner. To grow old with him, and to maybe someday start a family. Not to be dumped all <em>alone</em> with a <em>total</em> <em>stranger</em>!"  </p><p>It feels <em>good, </em>to finally speak the words into existence. She feels their intensity, their fierce magnitude, waning now exposed to the light. </p><p>For the next piece of time, Garazeb stays close and listens to her. How long she speaks and cries, she doesn’t know. As she releases her pain, Hera feels her body heave and gasp for air, only sensing a shift when Zeb departs briefly to fetch her towel, then sit with her until she sobs herself dry. Finally--head fuzzy and pounding with sinus pressure, after what feels like years and <em>years </em>of mourning--she feels herself begin to return. Along with the ever-present hunger, she comes back to her grieving and aching body, but feeling strangely and gratefully hollow.</p><p>“What a <em> mess,</em>” she complains, voice raw and scratchy. I’m so sorry, Garazeb. I know that you're also in pain.” </p><p>But when she looks up at Zeb, and she discovers that he has been crying as well, she realizes that the big Lasatlooks <em>relieved</em>--as though he has been carrying something massively heavy upon his back for a very long time, and that now, since she has spoken the truth that both of them know, he has been able to finally set it all down. </p><p>Zeb nuzzles the top of her head with tear-streaked whiskers. “Naw,” he says gently, voice rumbling low. “Don't say that, Hera. Nothin’ to be sorry about, at least on my end. I’m <em>glad</em> that ya were willin’ to trust me with all of that...fragile stuff. I knew that somethin’ was hurtin’ ya deep, but I could only guess at what it was until now. Feels good, gettin' it out in the open.” </p><p>With a compassionate rumble, he purrs and plants a familiar kiss on the top of her head. His breath nestles softly between her lekku. </p><p>“We’re in this together, Spectre Two. You have a family right here that <em>loves</em> ya--and I’ll be here to remind you, whenever you feel the need, that we're never going to leave ya to fight it alone.” He draws back, face shaking into toothy, watery grin. “And, of course, to make sure that ya get some decent food when yer muscle ends up eatin' it on a whim." </p><p>Hera chuckles wetly. She embraces him, leaning into the comfort of her crew-member, brother, <em>family</em>. </p><p>"Whatever time that may be. Midnight munchies, second lunch, or whenever." He gives her a teasing, lop-sided grin. "Ya just never know when Hungry Hera might strike." </p><p>She swats at him, feeling surprised by the honesty of the tentative smile stretching across her cracked lips. It feels like her muscles are re-learning the gesture--cracking through solid and duracrete layers, forming into a hesitant and shaky luster--however, the effort is worth it. Zeb's responce is a comforting glow that will stay with her for the rest of the day, and continuing onward. </p>
<hr/><p>
  <b>MONTH SIX </b>
</p>
<hr/><p>The grief is not gone. But it <em> does </em> feel as though a great weight has been lifted from Hera’s Syndulla’s shoulders.</p><p>Even though her body has never been more bowed from the burden it carries, nor more rounded out at the corners and crevices, she is breathing easier, walking lighter, and feeling more herself than she had since...<em>before</em>. Hera Syndulla is now in her sixth month, finishing up her second (human) trimester, and--according to Chopper--the child is now the size of a large <em>meiloorun</em>. </p><p>Ezra likes to call them the “Tiny Terror,” and place his hands over her tightening skin in order to feel them twisting and kicking inside. Sabine likes to call them the “Little Artist,” and uses the sounds of different tracks and instruments to try and coax them into jumping and dancing. Zeb and Kallus are thinking of starting a permanent home of their own on Lira San--and Hera <em> suspects </em>that the both of them have baby fever--because Zeb often calls them “Kit” and “Kiddo” with all the affection of an impending father. </p><p>If they go, she will follow them there. No sense raising a son without his cousins to play with.</p><p>And this is the other piece of information that she is pondering now: that she has a <em>boy, </em>Jacen, joining her on the <em>Ghost. </em></p><p>Several months before, when Hera had learned that her child would be born with the sexual organs of a human male, she had decided to keep the information private. Knowing that sex and gender do not always align, and that the choice would be her child's own, she had been hesitant to name them publicly and before they were born. However, she had found herself gradually referencing the child in her head as <em>him </em> or <em>my son--</em>and so, at least for now, these terms would stand as acceptable for her Jacen. </p><p>Jacen: now growing downy hair, hiccuping, and turning.</p><p>Jacen: whose heartbeat is especially strong now, becoming familiar to her as her own. </p><p><em> “Spectre Seven is breathing sips of air from his lungs now,” </em> Chopper informs her from where he is working alongside her shoulder. His bland, informative tone is unable to  disguise the clear investment in his voice, even in unaffected binary, and his gears and lights whirr with excitement. "<em>His survival rate is higher than fifty-percent, even if he is born at the present moment.”  </em></p><p>Hera hums to her droid, focused on the engine parts that she is repairing.</p><p>“I think that I’ll wait on that, thank you, Chop. We’ve still got two months to go on human terms, and three or four if we’re counting how it goes back on Ryloth."  She frowns as something broken spurts oil upward towards, and is momentarily thankful for the pair of thick safety goggles that cover her eyes. (<em>Usually she’s not one for the rules--but Zeb had insisted that she wear them, going on about something like ‘not needing to chase after more blinded Force-sensitives once they’re born’). </em>"Ach! Chop, grab me that rag and another ream of space duct-tape, would you, please?" </p><p>The droid's attention is, evidently, elsewhere. </p><p><em> “Spectre Seven is opening his eyes and blinking from within the womb,” </em>he reports. <em>“You may find that his sensitivity to light is going to double, or even triple, within the next week or so. He will also recognize familiar voices and sounds, which is good news for Spectre Three, as she continues to disturb your sleep cycle with musical explosions.”  </em></p><p>“Lovely,” Hera grunts, wiping oil from her skin and reaching for her missing tool. “Be a dear and fetch me the spanner too while you're at it.”</p><p>Chopper mutters and rumbles around, doing his best to pretend that this work is a chore, and that he <em> isn’t </em>devoted to his long-term best friend and pilot who will soon be a mother. Finding the correct vibro-spanner, the C1-10P unit spins and rolls back to her, extending it towards her work table with one of his spindly, claw-gripped hands. He waits dutifully until she plucks it from his grip. </p><p>“Good work,” she says to him fondly. “I appreciate it, love.” </p><p>He says something quietly that sounds suspiciously like an objection, but she shakes her head and chooses to ignores it. The ornery little astromech has been by her side longer than Zeb, Kanan, or even the <em> Ghost,</em> and she knows his moods and metrics inside and out. Chopper would do literally <em> anything </em>to ensure the well-being of his family, including its newest and yet unborn member. </p><p><em>Even</em> if he has to <em>complain</em> about it along the way. </p><p>With a series of blats, Chopper turns back on his wheels and retracts his limbs into a resting, thoughtful posture. After finishing wiping away the loose oil, Hera looks down from her table at him and raises her eyebrows. Chopper only does this sort of behavior when he wants her <em> complete </em>attention, and so, she sets the spanner aside for a moment.</p><p>“What’s up, Chop?” she asks, placing one set of grease-crusted knuckles under her chin. “You worried about these repairs?” </p><p>The C1-10P unit blinks several lights on and off. “<em>Negative</em>. <em>I have an inquiry about Spectre Seven,” </em> he answers. “<em>As you know, I am disgusted by the growth and decay cycle of organic matters."</em> She rolls her eyes.<em> "However, it is of utmost importance to me that I keep a close track of the healthy development of Spectre Seven.”  </em>Chopper shifts back and forth on his resting gears. <em> “Just as I keep a close watch on my Captain.”  </em></p><p>Hera smiles. For as long as she’s known him, Chopper has always called her ‘my Captain.’ Even before she’d obtained a ship, he'd perceived her love of flight and and passion for piloting skills. </p><p>“Naturally. But what do you want to know that you don't already?” She tries to keep the laugh from her voice. “You probably know the lifespan and development cycles of organics better than I do by now. <em>Stars</em>, I’ll bet that you didn’t just download those files about pregnancy from the holonet in a temporary storage file--I bet that you probably <em> studied </em>them, too, so that you could answer our questions without even hesitating.”</p><p>She grins at him, full of affection. “What could I possibly tell you?" </p><p>The off-white and orange painted droid pauses. He shifts a few gears, whirring back and forth in hesitation. “<em>Will Spectre Seven be like Him?” </em>he asks, voice carefully neutral. </p><p>Hera blinks in surprise and confusion. “Will he be human, you mean?” She asks, using both of her hands to push upward. “Hmm, not exactly. He’ll be equal parts human and Twi’lek, so...<em>Yes? No? Both? Neither</em>?” She winces, knowing that the challenges of a child raised in a galaxy that still carries much xenophobia, despite the compatibility and love of one’s parents, can be very steep. “Sorry, Chop. You could probably help me out with some research there. We should start pulling some articles from that department...” </p><p>“No, <em> no,” </em> the droid interrupts, flickering a backup light. “Will he be s<em>tar-touched. </em> By the <em> Ashla. </em>Like Kanan and Ezra.” </p><p>The general blinks.</p><p>Of the many dreams that she’s had of Jacen--and there are many, both good and bad--there have <em>never</em> been any in which he uses the Force. It’s strange, really, given the fact that she’s grown so familiar with Jedi living around her during the time when Kanan was alive. Certainly she has considered the question; but in all of her time waiting and wondering, there has never been any one clear, compelling answer. If Jacen <em>is </em>going to weld the Force, then she currently has no indication. </p><p>“Honestly? I’m not sure, Chopper,” she answers with a shrug. “And I’m not sure what that would mean for us...either way." </p><p>Hera allows herself to lapse into brooding silence. The galaxy is not safe for Force-sensitives: <em> that </em> much is certain. In their own time, the Jedi had been betrayed by the clones of the murderous Sith empire, resulting in the loss of Kanan's master, Deepa (along with his name, and his life, and his family). It would be a long time, perhaps, maybe never, before this rebellion could make the galaxy safe for their presence again.</p><p>If there <em> is </em>a place where one could be a Jedi, then perhaps it would be on Lira San. Safe and protected within a swirling star cluster, the mythical planet that is home to Lasat is still hidden away from the Empire. </p><p><em>But who would train him? </em>She finds herself wondering. <em>Ezra is hardly more than a boy. His own training is incomplete; he'd need to keep learning alongside Jacen. I know that they need a Master--Kanan always said as much about the pairing with a padawan. But who has even survived the purge? Ahsoka has once again disappeared on a mission. And if there are others, how could we even know if they were trustworthy? Could I allow anyone else to watch over my son? </em></p><p>Her spiraling thoughts are brought to an abrupt halt by Chopper. The little droid bumps against her knee, whirring softly. </p><p>“<em>Don’t worry, my Captain,” </em> he reassures her. <em> “If nothing else, I will train the child.” </em></p><p>She blinks at him and then chuckles. But Chopper answers with a fiery passion: “<em>Do not doubt me, Spectre Two! I was used on countless occasions for training both Jedi that you know and love well! I will keep Jacen's skills sharp, help to protect him, and teach him in the way of his Masters." </em>She looks at him curiously, and the droid blinks a few hesitant lights. <em>"He left me recordings..." </em></p><p>Hera feels her mouth drop open. Eagerly, sliding forward in her chair, she gestures and nods at Chopper to display them. </p><p>Carefully, as though he is unsure if they will hurt her, the C1-10P unit opens a blue, flickering holo. <em>"We recorded many trainings," </em>the droid says, soft even in his binary language. "<em>In the situation that he would go on a mission and would not return."  </em>There is a beautiful, painful fracture in Hera’s chest as she looks at the soundless, revolving projection: suspended within the blue of recording, Kanan Jarrus raises and spirals his saber. He goes through the motions of the Jedi kana--stage 1, <em> defend </em> , stage 2, <em> advanc </em>--and he flows into the postures of battle. Amazed that she had never thought to ask this of her droid friend before, she watches the holo after holo provided by Chopper, seeing the motion and form of her partner brought to life once again. </p><p>It’s been more than half a year since she’d seen him, held him in her arms.</p><p>It feels like yesterday<em>, </em>watching him now. </p><p>"<em>I was unsure that they would be...wanted," </em>Chopper says stiffly, still keeping his voice wary. <em>"But my research informs me that you are recovering now. In the event that Spectre Seven is born in the same manner as Spectre Six, then he will still have his father to teach him. I thought it prudent that we are well-prepared." </em></p><p>Hera fills her eyes filling with tears. Cradling the dome of her astromech's head, she places their foreheads together. </p><p>"<em>Thank you," </em>she says with feeling. "No matter how Jacen is born, this will be a valuable treasure." She swallows, feeling that familiar sticking behind her breastbone, but relishing the newfound feeling of hopefulness that joins the heat of sorrow there. It must be <em>joy. </em>"I love you, Chop. We're so lucky that you're part of this family." She wipes her eyes, smiling down at him and the shimmering holo. "This is the best surprise I could imagine." </p>
<hr/><p>
  <strong>MONTH SEVEN </strong>
</p>
<hr/><p>She should have known that he would come early.</p><p>It was right there in his name, after all, as <em>Spectre Seven. </em></p><p>The child would arrive in the late, seventh month of her pregnancy. He would be well into his third term, but not completely beyond all manner of worry. Looking for all the galaxy like a very<em> small</em> human boy, the child had been drawn from her womb, soothed and swaddled and cared for, kept sound by the professional hands emergency labor-delivery droids. His entry point had been eased by the passage of gel, the warmth of the liquid birthing pool that surrounded her, and the life holo-feed of her dearest friends cheering her on as they watched and waited from the <em>Ghost. </em></p><p>All of this was fortunate, for he had chosen to come at the climax of <em>war</em>. </p><p>"<em>Nine</em> months," Hera had groaned at the moment. "NINE, love. I wanted at least <em>one</em> more. You were supposed to wait until I was <em>ready</em>...or, at least, until you'd grown out those lekku!" </p><p>Emerging at 6 pounds and 7 ounces--looking for all the world like a <em>very </em>small human--the babe had arrived, dripping and screaming, with a headful of green, feathered hair and small, pointed ears. Hera had loved him, fiercely and instantly, as he'd belched air from his lungs and gasped for new breath. She'd held him tenderly her chest and covered his soft skull with kisses while they had moved quickly to sever the cord. There were mounds on his skull where two lek might have otherwise developed and grown; and, perhaps, if he'd waited for a full term, they still would have. But such things are difficult to determine one way or the other. It appears to very, when children are born to parentage such as theirs.  </p><p>Either way: he is <em>theirs. </em>Jacen Syndulla, Spectre Seven, is living, healthy, perfect and whole. And he <em>belongs</em> with them: their family, composed of herself, Kanan, and all of the Spectres. </p><p>Hera admires him now, several days later, watching him sleep peacefully under the muted quiet of the transparisteel dome. </p><p>It had been terrifying when they'd been first separated: she'd held Jacen during the afterbirth, but then had been forced to release him to the droids and medics so that they could provide him with urgent medical attention. After his survival had been secured--respirator, incubator, intubation--he'd been brought back to her, screaming and crying within the chamber. Her body had <em>ached </em>to hold him, and it had taken them both several sleepless nights before they could accept the security of it and rest. </p><p>But now, breathing deeply, they are <em>together. </em></p><p>They can adjust and settle into this new life, build up a new home. </p><p>"<em>There</em> now,I'm here, little one." she says, placing a hand over the warmth of the egg-like dome. Just like in the womb, he can hear her through the thinness of the protective material. She and the rest of the Spectres will continue to talk to him, to build him up with story and song, to teach him all that they know: telling him of life and love, of the father who had loved him always, before he was born, and of his present family who loves him still. Jacen Syndulla will <em>live--</em>and he continue to gain weight and grow strong, to build his way towards breathing alone, to stretch his way upwards and into the sunlight. Because neither he, nor his mother, will be left abandoned or alone. They will be surrounded by those who love them; those who will take their hands, walk with them through heavy darkness, guide them along into new light. "Rest easy, my love." </p><p>In spite of it all, Spectre Seven is <em>thriving</em>. </p>
<hr/><p>
  <strong>AFTERWARDS</strong>
</p>
<hr/><p>
  <em>You are finally together.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> As he rests softly in his makeshift cradle, his warm and strengthening limbs stretching wide and free into this newfound space, you know that this journey of patiently waiting is finally over. You are home: after all of this time and wondering, after all of this time standing so far apart, you are finally, finally sure. Because: your hands are entwined together. Because: that long-awaited, much-yearned-for breath has finally been released, finally, breathed radiant and holy upon the skin that is yours. You felt the truth of it bloom through your heart, pour out with the sighs that were deeper than words. More certain than the returning of spring, more sure than the distant collapsing of stars.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> You belong to one another, with another, now. You are sure.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> For, in your hands, you hold together a love that endures. A love that lives on. </em>
</p>
<hr/><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Please leave comments and/or kudos if you have time. It makes all the difference to me!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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